The swamp gas rises through my frame,
I don't recall how I became,
A rotting hulk on nature's floor,
With dreams of flights I flew before.
To see the sun, the clouds, the sky,
For this I pray before I die,
To feel the rushing wind once more,
Up from slime, again to soar.
My bosom feels a gentle nudge,
Someone's moving through the sludge,
A line is passed around my girth,
My tail is lifting from the earth.
On trucks they load, with gentle care,
My parts and pieces, nothing spare,
A wing, a cowl, a broken wheel,
Inside I think this can't be real.
For miles we move, and oh so slow,
So tight I'm lashed, for lest I bow,
What be my fate, as now they park,
My shattered form in hangar dark.
They seem to know from whence I hurt,
As tender hands clean years of dirt,
Around me shapes move to and fro,
Tarnished skin begins to glow.
My vision clears through glass anew,
Amazing what these men can do,
With growing life life I glimpse my goal,
A runway waits, on which to roll.
The days pass by, too quick to count,
A gleaming engine, in my mount,
I feel as though I"m held by reins,
Now precious oil pumps through my veins.
On dawnlit pavement, where I wait,
The last component of my fate,
My leather feels a gentle touch,
Controls are held, but not too much.
Power trembles, rib and spar,
Chocks that hold me cast ajar,
Motion finally, after years,
Wipers sweep my grateful tears.
Faster, faster, pistons racing,
Long I've waited, air embracing,
Wings cast down and left to die,
Now caress the waiting sky.
Upward toward remembered blue,
Through crystal air, that waited too,
A friend's return from time gone by,
With endless thanks, a chance to fly.
by Patrick J. Phillips
